Sorry for the delay; school has started and so has marching band, which means I don't get a lot of free time anymore. I'll try and update as often as possibly.

Chapter 3: An Unexpected Trip to Mexico

That, of course, was not the last the Garcia heard of that incident; Alfred was determined to remind them at every possible moment that they had ripped up his letter. He screamed it loudly from his closet all night long, kicking and pounding on the door and throwing such a fit that neither Maria nor Miguel Garcia could get even a wink of sleep that night. (Javier, who could quite possibly sleep through the end of the world, was fine.)

And then, at around five in the morning, Alfred finally tired of his screaming and kicking, and fell asleep, leaving the house in silence at last. In the morning, he couldn't even remember what he had been angry about the night before, and the Garcias thanked God for Alfred's short memory span.

And then Javier returned with the mail and announced to everyone at the table that Alfred had received yet another letter; the chaos began at once, both Uncle Miguel and Alfred lunging at a rather terrified Javier in an attempt to grab the letter first. Forks fell to the floor. Coffee spilled across the table. Scrambled eggs went flying. Aunt Maria screamed. Javier screamed louder.

And Alfred and Uncle Miguel began a game of tug-a-war with the letter until finally the poor thing couldn't last any longer and ripped in half once again.

And once more, there was enraged screaming from a certain Alfred F. Jones.

Late that night, Alfred finally ceased his screaming and thought things through logically (for perhaps the first time in his eleven year old life). Seeing as his screaming and tantrum-throwing was apparently doing nothing, he wisely decided to switch tactics. When he was sure the rest of the family was asleep, he snuck from his closet and crept towards the front door as quietly as possible. (Which, considering Alfred wasn't really one for grace or quiet, wasn't all that quiet; especially that one part when he walked right into a wall, stubbed his toe, and hopped about on one foot, whining.)

Amazingly enough, he made it to the door without anyone waking and checking on him. Alfred took a seat by the door, planning to stay there all night until the mail was delivered; his plan was then to rush out to the mailbox and grab his letter as quickly as possible in the early morning and immediately hide himself away in his closet to finally, finally, read the contents of his letter.

It was a good plan. Really, it was, and would have perhaps worked.

If Alfred didn't fall asleep ten minutes later, only to be awoken in the morning by his surprised Aunt who demanded to know why he was sleeping by the door.

That morning at the breakfast table he watched as his letter was ripped up for a third time. Following breakfast, Alfred, Javier, and Aunt Maria watched from the front porch as Uncle Miguel kicked down the mailbox and then hid it in the garage.

"Now they can't deliver the letters," he said smugly, lighting a celebratory cigar. Aunt Maria nodded, but didn't look particularly convinced, Javier punched Alfred for no reason at all, and Alfred pouted for the rest of the day.

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The next day was Friday; there were fifteen letters addressed to Alfred sitting on the front porch. Uncle Miguel screamed when he saw Alfred try to smuggle them in. Javier, now extremely curious about what these letters actually said and why his father was so against Alfred reading them, grabbed one and tried to read it; he had just ripped it open when Uncle Miguel yanked it from his hands and smashed his lit cigar onto it, catching it on fire.

He let it burn into ashes before dropping them on the floor, ordering Alfred to clean the mess up. He ripped the remaining fourteen letters up as he left the room. (Alfred had to clean those up as well.)

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On Saturday, it got a little chaotic. Twenty three letters arrived for Alfred in unusual places. Inside the coffeepot. Under the milk carton in the fridge. Two in the potted plant. Ten on the breakfast table. One on Uncle Miguel's favorite recliner, three on the love seat, and five on the sofa.

Uncle Miguel, after collecting all of them and searching the whole house through for more, called the post office and screamed at them for fifty-five minutes straight; Aunt Maria fed the letters through a paper shredder as Alfred watched mournfully from the doorway.

Someone began poking his backside insistently and he turned to come face to face with Javier. "Who in the world wants to talk to you so much?" he asked, looking honestly confused. Alfred scowled and punched him in the shoulder. Javier cursed and punched him in the face. Aunt Maria yelled at Alfred for fighting and made him clean up Javier's room for punishment.

(Afterwards, Alfred had to go find more tape for his glasses.)

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The next day, though, Uncle Miguel was in a fantastically good mood. "Domingo," he said gleefully when everyone was at the table. "They can't deliver mail today."

Uncle Miguel began humming, a truly frightening sight that could only mean he was extremely happy. He was halfway through the chorus of Guantanamera when something shot out of the chimney so fast that it flew across the living room, into the kitchen, and hit Javier in the back of the head. Alfred laughed so hard he nearly didn't see what the object even was until Javier, cursing quietly in Spanish, pulled it up off the floor so everyone could see it.

It was, of course, a letter. Addressed to a certain Alfred F. Jones.

Uncle Miguel screamed and lunged for Javier, who screamed and leapt away from the table and his frightening father. The table fell over as Uncle Miguel lunged across it and Aunt Maria screamed as plates and food went flying for the second time that week.

Just as Uncle Miguel got a hold of the letter, something else came shooting through the chimney. And then something else. And then, quite suddenly, at least forty or fifty letters began pouring out of the chimney, flying through the Garcia house and covering the floor in white.

With an enraged yelled, Uncle Miguel pushed Alfred over and rushed towards the fireplace, attempting to block any more letters from coming in. Javier ran out of the room to avoid getting hit yet again as Aunt Maria ran to the living room and tried to grab as many letters as she could.

Alfred ran after her, grabbing about five or six of the letters off the floor and stuffing them in his shirt. He was almost out of the room when Uncle Miguel grabbed the back of his shirt, spun him around, and stole the letters from him.

"GET OUT!" he screamed, shaking Alfred so hard his glasses nearly fell off his face. He then hoisted the screaming, flailing boy over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes and hurried into the hall where Javier was sitting with wide eyes. Aunt Maria, realizing picking up all the letters was a lost cause, followed after them.

"We are leaving. Now. Go get your things," Uncle Miguel ordered, shaking Alfred once more before setting him down.

After ten minutes, they were in the car, each with a small bag of clothes and other necessities. Uncle Miguel was silent and the enraged look on his face made him absolutely terrifying. There was no talking as they drove. And drove. And drove some more.

Aunt Maria looked as if she wanted to argue, and kept opening her mouth before changing her mind and shutting it again. Finally, after a quiet string of Spanish curses, she leaned back in her chair and watched the window.

Javier and Alfred, who were both incapable of sitting still for long periods of time, silently started a game that involved punching each other as hard as they possibly could in an attempt to make the other scream.

And Uncle Miguel continued to drive; every once in a while he would suddenly make a turn, muttering, "Shake 'em off," as he did so, glancing around in a paranoid manner.

They drove through the night, and then through the next day, stopping only for gas and food.

Eventually, after two days of driving, they pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel and rented an even smaller room. (Alfred had to share a bed with Javier, who kicked him every few minutes and muttered in his sleep about patacones.)

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That morning as they were eating the snacks they had packed for breakfast, there was a knock on their door. Uncle Miguel opened the door to a scrawny employee who asked, "Is there an Alfred Jones here?"

("Alfred F. Jones," Alfred corrected in the background.)

The employee glanced at Alfred and then held up a letter for them all to see. "There's about a hundred of these on the front desk."

Alfred hurried over and peeked his head around Uncle Miguel. He could just barely make out the mailing address on the envelope.

Alfred F. Jones
Room 23
The Bronco Motel
Brownsville, Texas

Uncle Miguel's face turned a peculiar shade of purple before he screamed, "THERE IS NO ALFRED JONES HERE!" and slammed the door on a very confused and frightened employee.

They packed their things immediately and jumped back in the car. "They won't find us in Mexico," Uncle Miguel said gleefully as he started the car.

(Alfred mourned the loss of hamburgers and the fact that he would have to speak more Spanish than usual.)

"As much as I would love to go to Mexico, can't we just go home?" Aunt Maria asked, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance.

"That's where they'll expect us to go," Uncle Miguel snapped back.

Javier's eyes widened and he paused in the middle of pinching Alfred's arm. "Who?" he whispered fearfully.

Alfred rolled his eyes at him. "Duuuuh," he whispered back. "The supervillians."

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Eventually, Uncle Miguel stopped in front of a little, run-down shack on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. There were no other buildings or people in sight and when they tried the front door, they found it unlocked and the house empty.

They moved their things from the car into the shack and briefly explored. There was only one bed so Javier slept on the living room - if it could be called that - couch while Alfred got the floor.

They all settled in and went to bed.

Except Alfred, who had suddenly realized something important: it was the day before his eleventh birthday. Or perhaps, he reminded himself, it already was his eleventh birthday. Curious, he snuck over to the side of the couch and grabbed Javier's arm, turning it so that he could read the watch on his wrist.

It was 11:58 - only two minutes before he turned eleven.

Alfred made himself comfortable and watched the numbers on the watch closely, counting down.

Only one minute to go. Thirty seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…

BOOM!

The entire shack shook as something pounded on the door. Alfred stared at it in shock. Someone was outside, he realized. Someone who wanted to get in.

Domingo - (spanish) Sunday
Guantanamera - best known Cuban song; also considered the most patriotic
Patacones - also known as 'Tostones'; made from platains; they're fried and taste sort of like french fries; they're really yummy!

Next chapter will be fun!